


Grande Amore

by leilitan



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Vignettes, romechu, title totally not inspired by eurovision
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 03:03:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3675027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leilitan/pseuds/leilitan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He doesn’t have longer to live. A year, at the most.”</p><p>It was a chronic decay, and like all things chronic, it was painful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grande Amore

 

**Summary:**

“He doesn’t have longer to live. A year, at the most.” 

It was a chronic decay, and like all things chronic, it was painful.

 

* * *

 

**January**

 

“He doesn’t have longer to live. A year, at the most.”

It was a chronic decay, and like all things chronic, it was painful.

Painful, to watch that person decay, painful to let your feelings decay along with them, painful to think about it all after the pain had finally passed.

Yet despite all that pain, was it worse to know you were dying? To be the one dying?

It was frustrating, and China didn’t know. When he moved into Rome’s house as his self-proclaimed caretaker, he had been greeted with nothing less than embraces and bright words.

And since that moment, he had lost all the things he thought he had known beforehand.

Those useless things were replaced with what he had stored away in his mind centuries ago.

He never truly forgot where to hold Rome’s waist, nor did the contours of Rome’s arms ever fully flee his mind, and when they embraced - though now as fellow countries rather than doting lovers - China still knew where to hold him. Centuries of altruism had done nothing to make him forget, much to both his disappointment and surprise.

“You fool, you were dying all this time, and you never told anyone?” China had said quietly, allowing himself a moment to regain his composure before he suddenly pulled away to put down his bags and take off his shoes.

"I'm not dying," Rome laughed and rubbed the back of his head. "I'm just getting older, like you."

"Very likely." China had muttered, struggling to open the closet door and hang up his jacket. "The optimist, as always."

But, maybe the rest of them were wrong, and Rome was still trodding along his slow decline, and maybe, even if it was wrong to hope, they’d still have time.

Being helpless was painful too.

Especially when you finally realised how helpless you really were in the grand scheme of the world.

* * *

 

**February**

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I can make arrangements for him to stay at my house.” Germany motioned for China to sit down on the bench with him, brushing off the snow that had begun to gather all over its surface. China stared, giving him a look. His hostility went unnoticed. “I’m sure Veneziano would relish the extra company. It's his grandfather, after all.”

“He needs _me_ ,” China insisted. He didn’t sit down. Instead, he picked up his briefcase and gave Germany another one of his 'looks', this time one of the stubborn, 'I'm-older-than-you-and-know-more' variety.

“He needs _someone_ , just like we all do,” Germany corrected, but China was already leaving, checking his phone for the train schedule and texting Rome that he was on his way back right now.

He only looked back at Germany once.

" _I_ need him, then. Have a nice day, Ludwig."

* * *

 

**March**

After two months of living with Rome, China realised that the old country hadn’t changed much at all. He unfailingly continued to lose everything he regarded as unimportant. He still liked to stare blankly at nothing while intently biting the insides of his mouth. And, he _always_ liked to play with his broadsword, simply sheathing and unsheathing it over and over again for no seen reason.

If things went badly, he'd swing it, and he'd break something, exactly as he had thousands of times before.

“Where are my glasses?” Rome called from downstairs. China cringed at the smash that followed afterwards. “...Crap, I think I knocked over that Athenian vase from Heracles.”

“Your house is practically a museum, treat it with some respect.” Shaking his head, China grabbed the uncleaned pair of glasses off of Rome’s nightstand and dropped the clothes he was folding to attend to Rome’s demands. He didn't even make it to the bottom of the stairs before something was dropped with a loud _clang-_

"That was an accident!”

“You need a maid,” China snorted. He sidestepped the broadsword on the floor and handed Rome his glasses, prepared to head right back upstairs to the laundry, and completely unprepared for what came next.

“Isn't that what you're here for?” Rome blinked as he put on his glasses, a slow grin coming onto his face. It wavered for a split second as he began to speak. “We’re still friends, right?”

“If that’s what you want.” Already, China was halfway up the stairs, yet he stopped where he was, a small series of tremolo-like heartbeats taking over his normal ones. Losing control again. He denied it, but he was waiting for Rome to talk. He'd wait forever.

“You need more friends, I need a maid; we can make this work.” Rome sat down onto the sofa and closed his eyes. He sighed contentedly, letting a small silence settle afterwards before he continued. “I hope you aren't angry at me.”

“Angry? I don’t think that’s the right word to describe how I feel.” Try as he did, his words didn't come out the way he wanted them to. Even China knew that Rome was hiding a smile, and though he hated to admit it, he also found himself doing the same (only a bit) for a reason he couldn't identify.

“Then what’s the right word?”

China paused for a moment to consider his question.“Utterly and completely at odds, is the only one I can think of. If only that counted as one word.”

* * *

 

**April**

 

The rain came rushing down, a torrential current of water and cleansing for the entire world. It only seemed louder when its pattering echoed throughout the entirety of Rome’s house - Rome’s house, empty because its inhabitant seemed to no longer care about how well-kept it was, and because China had trouble keeping up with both the housekeeping and the caretaking part of his job - empty of soul, light, and sound, it had been so sad. Any sound now, in the face of such a house, was a loud sound.

It became even louder when Rome dashed out the back door and onto the deck to feel the rain, because China had to follow after him.

All the rain did was come down. The raindrops were violently hitting their faces, and the downpour was the only sound to be heard the entire time, save for Rome's exuberant laughs and the occasional clap of thunder.

“You’re going to catch a cold. Put a jacket on.” Sighing, China slips out of his own and drapes it over Rome’s shoulders. As a second thought, he pushed the hood up so it covered Rome’s head as well. “Take it.”

“A cold can’t kill me if even wars failed,” Rome retorted, but he tried to fit himself in the small jacket anyway. Halfway through though, he got his arm stuck in the wet sleeve, and China had to intervene, tugging at the soggy fabric as he attempted to pull it over Rome’s large arms.

“But a jacket leaves the mighty warrior at its mercy,” China commented as he finally managed to slip the other country’s arm through the sleeve. He was completely soaked now.

Soaked, happy, and acting like an utter fool.

“That’s why I need someone with brains to help me.” Still laughing, Rome pulled China closer to kiss him on the cheek. He ran his thumb over China’s mouth, and without reason or ritual, kissed him again, smiling into it this time. “Or else my kingdom gets toppled by wet jackets.”

“You shouldn't be acting like this.” He had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes - but who was he to argue? There was a smile on China’s face, so stupid, so ignorant, and so _kissed_ by Rome’s warm lips.

* * *

 

**May**

The line between lovers and friends and comrades was very thin. Or so it seemed, at first glance.

At the second glance, they were like tennis balls, and they’d bounce back and forth.

_Bounce._

Exactly like that.

China taking Rome out for walks in the park for fear of the other country getting lost was the serve.

_Bounce._

When they get home, they sit on the couch and watch television and snack in comfortable silence, curled up next to each other just so that they appeared to be close friends, and the ball would be hit back.

_Bounce._

Then Rome would slowly work his way to grasping China’s hand, and every time it happened, China entwined their fingers, hoping it seemed like nothing more than a casual gesture.

_Bounce._

The movie would end, and China would get up to make dinner while Rome dozed off on the couch. If he was lucky, they’d talk about the day, and Rome wouldn’t forget the details of what had happened.

_Miss._

And then, after a couple more hours of endless nothing, they’d go to sleep in their separate beds, and that’d be a day. Wake up the next morning, and the ball was served again. Eventually, they'd miss. That's just how it was.

 _Bounce._  

* * *

 

**June**

 

Even now, they dance. 

It was no longer the lively, sliding steps they used to have, no longer skin and skin brushing or small leaps in China’s heart when Rome picked him up. Their bursts of passion had burned out. Their low laughs and hushed, love-drunk words lost their lowness, their hushedness, and all of their love-drunkenness. Dead, it seemed, in the coals of a flame that was no more.

But the steps never changed.

Forward, side, down, back; down, side, forward, back; hold, smile, pull, kiss.

When danced on the darkest of summer nights, when the crickets plucked their chirps into little strums and everything seemed to stop for love, it made it feel like nothing changed at all. The sky hasn’t changed, the stars haven’t faded, and the night hasn’t brightened. Millennia did nothing to wear away at their eternity.

Maybe that was the same case for them, on those nights where twisted reality became right.

* * *

 

**July**

 

What part of Rome loved him?

His heart was for the world, adventure, honour and glory and the happiness of a life that had long ago passed.

His head was for idle fancies, deep and flightful contemplations, and for leaking out everything he tried thinking about.

His legs and feet were for taking him to China, then away from China, and then back again, searching along every road and trail for what he wanted. That’s why they were worn.

His hands and arms also did that, but unlike his legs and feet, they never pushed away. They only pulled closer. They were foolish and tawny and clumsy movement, they were the part of him with scars. The part that felt the truest, or at least, the part that had convinced everyone around him that they were honest and real.

They made up for everything else, and they were why China loved them.

They stood for what he wished Rome was.

* * *

 

**August**

 

Time was the natural predator of the universe. If that was true, then Age was the vultures that flew low circles around Time’s victims, waiting for the last tick of their hearts to sound. They were the only forces that were capable of reducing an empire to ruins. They could brutally rip all the pages out of their story, and nothing could stand in their way.

“I can’t remember,” Rome said to China one day, “I can’t remember. What month is it?”

All China could do was stare, eyebrow raised and mouth slightly open. After a few seconds, he put down his newspaper and leaned forwards, eyes taking in every one of the other nation’s movements.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Rome rubbed the back of his head, and even then, a silly lopsided smile lit up his face, his grin like that of a child asking for apology. Ignorance and joy weren't that different, China gave him that.

“I forget the name. I mean, it’s warm and…” he trailed off, waving his hand as if it meant something. The stupid smile stayed right where it was.

“And?”

“I’m not sure. It’s a good feeling though; comfortable, I think. Is it Awkward?”

“ _August_. The one that you named after one of your ridiculously pompous emperors.” China picked up the newspaper again and moved to an armchair in a corner of the room. Only behind the protection of the paper’s inky pages could he take the deep breaths he so desperately needed. He refused more emotion. He refused to show Rome that he was losing it. Another deep breath, and he drew his legs up onto the couch, trying his best to concentrate on the contents of the paper that he wasn’t interested in.

The man whose empire once held the authority to change the calendar of the world, the man who once crushed other nations and danced in torchlit streets and guzzled down wine and had taken the riches of a universe into his hands - only a bit longer, and he would just cease to be.

 

* * *

 

**September**

In his head, there were a thousand things China wanted to do before it was all over. He wasn’t sure which one he wanted to do first, or for that matter, whether they were even possible things. But at the end of the day, he thought he’d find a way to get it done. That's what he wanted, after all.

He wanted to read Camus’ works on philosophy and human thought; he wanted to return to his search for immortality that he had thrown away to fight pointless wars; he wanted to dash across a desert, to learn how to speak Hebrew or Latin or Sanskrit; he wanted to be able to sit in Rome’s house, watching the depleting man try to piece together a basic puzzle, and not feel pained.

He wanted to know how many lies he’s been told, and how many times he’s lied to the world.

“You look at the shorter hand - if it doesn’t touch the number, it’s still the hour before. Then you look at the long hand - each tick is a minute. So if it’s at the one, then it’s five minutes into the hour, and if it’s at the two, then it’s ten minutes in. Do you understand?” China asked, handing his neatly drawn diagram to Rome. He was forcing him to look at it and willing him to simply _understand_.

He wanted to know if he was really helping anyone, or if he was just trying to satisfy his own shallow wants.

“Do you understand?” China crossed his arms. “Do you need me to explain it again?”

“Why do I need this?” Rome swatted the paper away, batting at it like a cat would with a toy. A curious cat, at that.

“I don’t know.”

There was a long silence in which neither of them looked at the other.

He wanted to know what Rome was thinking then, if he had seen through China’s facade and caught a glimpse of all the selfish desires that were hiding right behind it.

He wanted a lot, but though he hoped, he knew somewhere deep inside that he wasn't going to get it all.

* * *

 

**October**

 

Light, witty banter. That’s all they used to be

Some silly phrases here and there, other failed moments of flirting scattered throughout their lives of forever and a day.

What were they now?

A broken, dying man and his broken, dying lover.

Death in two different ways, that’s what they were. Incoming death in different shades of reds. The final ending.

* * *

 

**November**

 

The year was getting closer to its end, and constantly, China found it harder to realise what he was doing. He’d doze off while sorting papers, he’d try to sleep when he waited for his coffee to cool, and at night, he’d lie awake and stare at the ceiling, knowing he needed the sleep he was bypassing. Every bump and ridge on the ceiling was engraved in his mind, and almost, it was like looking at a minefield of stars.

If the roof had fallen onto him on one of those nights, he wouldn't have noticed.

But eventually, he had to remind himself that this wasn't his house - and it wasn't the time for him to die. Not yet.

His house was vibrant chaos under the leash of wisdom. Rome’s house was wisdom buried under all the other things he had. From Asian jars to gargoyles and spears hanging off walls to archaic sculptures and ancient scriptures, thousands of years compiled upon one another, but it was all there.

China just wanted to keep his house organised and simple, like how he wanted to keep his feelings and thoughts-

Simple, like how he wished things were.

* * *

 

**December**

Rome didn’t say anything. All he did was squeeze the hand he was holding. He had no idea whose hand it was or why (the most important question), but he undoubtedly felt better. Or so, that’s what China thought he was thinking. It had become a habit, that, to think for Rome. It made China feel better about himself.

“It’ll be alright,” China murmured, stroking the other nation’s knuckles and feeling his warm skin. “It’ll be alright soon.”

He repeated it like a mantra, a prayer, and hoped that Rome would understand.

“I love you too much.” Taking a deep breath, China tightened his grip on Rome’s hand, his fingers, and continued. “Is that a mistake, or was it just how it's supposed to be?”

“I can’t say if it was wrong. But even if it was a mistake, I never regretted it.” Maybe his words went through - maybe they didn’t. The only thing China felt in response was another squeeze of the hand, and that by itself, was enough for him. “We’ll all remember you. Your grandchildren, their friends, all of the United Nations, we’ll talk about your history all the time. Maybe we can get you a holiday; International Rome Day, that sounds like something you’d call it. How about it?”

It was stupid, really. He was being stupid. Rome probably didn’t even remember how to walk, let alone comprehend a language.

Yet there must’ve been something, anything at all, and it must’ve gotten through, because Rome squeezed his hand again, and he rested his head on China's shoulder, moving a bit closer than usual. Like he knew.

And as they sat in the darkness, listening to the clock’s every tick and the forever it all represented, China asked himself why.

But to that question, there was no answer; none at all, even if you were a man with the world at your fingertips.

**End**

 


End file.
